


Ghosting

by Toixx_nimpark



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Turned Into a Ghost, Flashbacks, Ghost Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hospitals, M/M, Mystery, Panic Attacks, Temporary Amnesia, murder mystery?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:07:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27177646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toixx_nimpark/pseuds/Toixx_nimpark
Summary: "Draco couldn’t recognize his surroundings. Which was odd since he was usually very attuned to his spatial awareness in the world. He could walk into a room and memorize the spot of every object in the room. What was even odder, though, was that he couldn’t remember how he got where he was."----Life after death should be easy. Draco shouldn't be tortured for all eternity in this limbo with his crush trying to solve his murder. But, then again, here he is...
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 97





	Ghosting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tackytiger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tackytiger/gifts).



> Happy Belated Birthday!!!! (VERY belated birthday...)  
> This is sooo late because I had some issues with a beta but fuck it I'll just post it now. I hope you enjoy this, the prompt was really fun to write. 
> 
> I named this fic after a song title! [Here's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UrDBxz_FjGw) the song if anyone is interested ;)

Draco couldn’t recognize his surroundings. Which was odd since he was usually very attuned to his spatial awareness in the world. He could walk into a room and memorize the spot of every object in the room. What was even odder, though, was that he couldn’t remember how he got where he was. 

He was on the hardwood floor, right at the edge of a carpet. A quick look behind his shoulder told him he was at the end of an entrance hall he’d never seen before. A thick, ebony front door stood at the end of the hall. Did he walk in and pass out? This wasn’t his house. 

But what did his house look like? The last memory he had was being at the manor. Surely he couldn’t have been staying with his parents for… Hang on, how long has it been? 

With a sudden vigor, Draco stood up. Wiped the dust off his trousers. And began walking around. 

This house was much dimmer than at the manor but seemed similar in size. He dragged his pointer finger across a small writing desk near the end of the hall and stared in disdain at the dust covering his fingerprints. Whoever lived here clearly did not care enough to clean their vintage. He scoffed and continued until he reached the open doorway closest to him, which was on his right. 

It was a study. With tall bookcases that were filled to the brim with books that only sounded vaguely familiar and three different places to sit. An emerald loveseat that looked so stiff Draco bet nobody’s sat in it in years. Two complimentary deep red armchairs were placed alongside the loveseat, all of which were pointed towards each other like they were having a conversation. Draco was starting to feel an aching thud in his chest that meant something was very, very wrong. 

Was he dreaming? How could a location look and feel so familiar yet not spark any memories whatsoever? He decided to sit down in one of the armchairs. Hopefully, the owner of the house would be out soon and they could sort all of this out. 

A newspaper lay on the plush arm of the chair. The Daily Prophet. Clearing his throat softly, Draco picked it up and thumbed through some of the headlines. Financial drama within the Ministry of Magic: the research committee was feeling neglected when funds were being divided and felt they couldn’t afford to keep up their department. He sighed; his father always said the research committee sure asked for a lot of money for a department that sat on their arses in rooms surrounded by dusty books and stupid muggle contraptions. 

His eyes drifted over the moving pictures until he reached the Quidditch section. He frowned. Ginny Weasley was a chaser for the Holyhead Harpies? Draco looked away from the paper entirely, trying to rack his brain for any memory of the youngest Weasley that fit this newspaper’s image of her. 

Last he saw of her was at the Battle of Hogwarts. Some blood staining her red hair, face covered in dust and dirt from the falling buildings, a fierceness in her voice that he’d never heard before. 

That Ginny Weasley looked nothing like the adult woman smiling waving to the camera while flying past on her broom. 

Curiosity overtook him and he glanced at the date on this paper.  _ March 13th, 2008 _ . 2008 didn’t even feel like a real number, but a future time that felt strange and out of place. What happened to him? Why couldn't he remember ten years going by? 

“—really don’t think that’ll be necessary, ‘Mione. It’s just a baby shower! We don’t need food that’ll feed a hundred and fifty people.” 

Draco jumped in his skin at the voice.  _ That  _ voice. Merlin, how long has it been since he’s heard it? His skin prickled in goosebumps and he felt like he was back in the Fiendfyre. Holding on tightly to the man’s waist and trying not to choke in the billowing smoke as they flew out of the Room of Requirement. 

Harry bleeding Potter walked into the study from a door off to the side, near the back of the room. Wearing black joggers and a red Chudley Cannons t-shirt. He was fit, too, and the shirt was stretched over his chest just a bit too much. Draco felt a lump in his throat and swallowed painfully around it. 

He had stopped talking. He was staring at him and all the color had left his face. Draco frowned. 

“What’s wrong with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

His hand holding the phone dropped to his side. His mouth hung open and reminded Draco of a dead fish. Then he scoffed and said something into the phone that Draco couldn’t hear. The phone looked kind of odd too; smaller and flatter than he was used to. But then again, it wasn’t as if he was used to Muggle objects. A wave of nausea hit him as he remembered the date on the Daily Prophet.  _ March 13th, 2008 _ .

“What happened to you?” He didn’t sound upset or even annoyed. Just extremely concerned and horrified. And this didn’t help the ache in his chest and the turmoil in his stomach. He didn’t have any better idea than Harry Potter. 

Draco didn’t notice Potter pick up a thick, leather-bound book from a shelf. He was too busy staring at the black print in the newspaper to see him throw it. And he just had enough time to scream as it flew towards him. Potter must’ve truly lost it. A murder attempt in broad daylight? In his own home, no less? 

He shut his eyes tight, bracing himself for a pain that never came. His arms, which had raised without his consent to protect his face, he forced to come back down. Draco stared at his hands. Not a mark on them. Did Potter fake it just to freak him out? 

“Haha, very clever, Potter—” But he wasn’t looking at Draco. He was pointing behind him. Draco, probably against his sanity’s better interests, followed the instruction, and looked. 

There was the book. Unassumingly spread out and Draco just knew the inner pages were being crinkled. There was a scuff mark on the leather. His heart stopped. Well, he supposed it had already stopped. Probably a long time ago. And he had no idea. How long did it take for ghosts to manifest? He somehow forgot the few days they spent on ghosts at Hogwarts. The last time he saw his parents was at the Hogwarts battle. Did his parents know he was… 

No, he couldn’t continue that train of thought. He felt like vomiting at just the skirt of the thought. And Potter was continuing to stare at him as if he were a sickly child at St. Mungo’s. Pity. Draco sneered at him. To prevent Potter from seeing just how panicked he really was, he might as well be as obnoxious as possible.

“Well, seeing as I’m going to be stuck in your home indefinitely… You might as well be a good host and show me around the place.” 

Potter scoffed at him, expression renewed with disbelief. 

  
  


It had been two weeks and they were making no progress. Despite his disbelieving expression, Draco assured Potter he was serious, and he was shown every nook and cranny of Grimmauld Place. The ancestral home of the Black family. His mother told him about this home and the legendary arguments her cousin, Sirius, would get into with his parents. 

Somehow, even though he’d never personally been there, knowing that his dear mother walked these halls at one point did make the strangeness bearable. 

Potter had acquired his best friends to help with the task and now Draco was surrounded by Gryffindors by nearly every other day. And the first time they came over to talk about everything, Draco finally understood the conversation Potter was having the first time they talked. Hermione Granger’s belly was round in a way Draco’s only seen in family albums with his own mother. It was still so strange to see these people being, well,  _ adults _ .

And more often than not, Ron Weasley had a very small little girl with freckles and large, bushy hair hanging off of his hip. 

On a regular basis, Draco felt like he was in some sort of dream. How else could he explain how strange all this was? The last time he saw any of these people, they were all seventeen. Seventeen and fighting for their lives for a war none of them wanted. And now they were all sitting in the study, drinking tea and chatting about mundane things like the season’s Quidditch outcomes, the weather, and the difficulties of being a homeowner. (Not that Draco could even drink tea— he and Potter figured that out on the first night.) 

Granger was somewhat fascinated by him. She’d always cursed her younger self for not interviewing the ghosts at Hogwarts about what it was like to be a spirit. Always been too busy helping Potter with whatever inane task to focus on all of the other components of being a witch and going to a magical school. 

With the exception of one off-color remark by Weasley, none of them talked about death. They talked about ghosts as much as possible without mentioning the fact that Draco was dead. He still felt like he’d break out in hives if he ever said it out loud. Sometimes Potter would just stare at him with concerned eyes that Draco tried his best to ignore. Sometimes that trio would start whispering to each other when Draco was out of the room and couldn’t hear them. He could still sense that secrets were being told. By the whispers. Which wasn’t something he could do when he wasn’t a ghost. 

They were in the study again. Weasley couldn’t come this time as he was taking their daughter, Rose, to a Muggle friend’s birthday party. Draco sat in an armchair, the same one from the first day, reading an ancient Wizarding cookbook. Something that seemed very disconcerting was a new itch to perform habits. Sitting in the same spots, walking through the same hallways at the same time every day, repeating things he’s said in the past. 

Granger was poring over documents she’d stolen from the Ministry archive. “I can’t find anything about Draco after the year 2002. The last piece of data they had was that he went to a Ministry-sanctioned charity ball with his parents. They donated one hundred thousand galleons to the rebuilding of the Wizarding World at this ball, so nice one on you, Malfoy. But that’s it.” 

Potter turned to look at him. He was pacing around like a madman. 

“Well, do you remember what happened at that ball?” He asked fervently. Draco would be offended at his obvious want to get him out of the house, but he also understood. He didn’t want to be here either and the sooner they figure this out the better. 

“No. I can’t remember anything past the Fiendfyre. Everything else is just smoky and dark and—”

_ Draco was surrounded by people. _ He couldn’t breathe because their elbows were brushing against his arms and the perfumes and colognes of all the men and women were suffocating. And the suit his mother begged him to wear because _ “Don’t you want to feel just an inch of normalcy? You’ve changed so much, Draco…” _ was squeezing his chest. There were three doors in this ballroom; two led outside and one led to the inner hallways of the building. 

He just had to make it to one of them. One of those doors would give him the space he needed not to have a public freakout.  _ Another  _ public freakout. He could still feel the scorching heat from his father’s palm smacking his face. 

Somehow, he made it to one of those three doors. Unknowing of where it led, Draco pushed it open and ran out with as much grace as he could muster. 

It led to a garden, with tall hedges and dewy grass. The cool night air sent a chill down his spine, but it was much preferred to the ballroom filled with body heat and everyone’s breaths mingling. He wondered if the last time he felt so good breathing was the day he took his first breath. Draco was his parents’ one and only child and he couldn’t help but feel he betrayed them. They were in that ball still, trying so hard to make amends. Trying so hard to keep the family name from being permanently stained from their past actions. 

They were inside and he was outside. He laughed a little at the poetry. Always outside his family and allowing himself to be forced into little suits to keep their attention on him. To make sure he doesn’t stray too far… 

“MALFOY!” 

Draco jerked in someone’s grasp, finding himself unaware of his surroundings once again. His chest rose up and down with a quickness he hadn’t experienced fully like this since sixth year. He looked around wildly, only stopping when he saw emerald green eyes staring into him. 

“Are you with us now, Malfoy?” Potter asked, sounding every bit like a medium performing a séance. Morbid laughter snuck out of his mouth as he remembered he was a spirit. Potter looked at him like he had officially lost it. 

Granger had stood up and was standing in the doorway of the study. She looked pale. “I’ll get a list of all the attendees at that charity ball. See you soon.” 

She turned heel and left the room. Her arms were empty of the archives she had brought, but Draco didn’t want to look at the records. He wouldn’t want to have another episode. 

  
  


“Aren’t ghosts supposed to haunt the places they died?” 

Potter liked to talk when he cooked. It was something Draco learned within hours of showing up at his home. Draco guessed that before his presence, Potter would just call up one of his poor friends and jabber at them for the fifty minutes it took while he learned a new recipe. It wasn’t as if he had a whole lot to do as a ghost, so who could blame him if he stared at Potter’s face while he squinted at the recipe on his phone. (He didn’t want to get his glasses dirty.)

Apparently, Potter didn’t think he needed to call his friend now that Draco was here. He just started conversations like it was no problem. 

“Well? You gonna answer or am I just talking to myself?” 

Draco groaned, rolling his eyes. “You’re so fucking needy, Potter.” He tapped his fingers on the countertop. “What does your question have to do with anything?” 

Potter stared at his fingers. He didn’t like that he just  _ stared  _ at him sometimes. Draco crossed his arms self-consciously. 

Then, he spoke, “For some reason, you’re here. You clearly didn’t die here. I’m sure I would’ve found your body by now. So I was just wondering if you knew anything since, y’know, you’re the ghost.” 

“I don’t know if I should be offended or not.” 

“Look, Malfoy.” He stopped cooking completely to look Draco in the eye. The determined shine in his eyes sent a minute shiver down his spine. “I am kind of flying blind here. I’ve gone down more than half the list and nobody has any idea what happened to you. We didn’t really get along in school, sure, but I still want to honor your body. Everyone should have a proper funeral.” 

There was some emotion that Draco couldn’t quite place. With everything that happened in the war, he couldn’t imagine everyone got a proper burial. Something like guilt settled in his chest. To how much of that did he contribute with his cowardice? How many lives would still be here today, in 2008, if he had rejected the Death Eaters and told Dumbledore what was going on from the beginning? 

He then remembered that he should probably respond this time, properly. “I… really appreciate that. Thank you.” 

Neither of them spoke for a moment. Potter turned back to his dinner. It looked like some kind of pasta dish. It  _ smelled  _ good and Draco felt somewhat jealous that he wasn’t able to eat any. He wondered what his last meal was. The episode he had wasn’t repeated since the last and he didn’t eat anything in that memory. 

Potter stopped again. “Wait a minute— your parents!” He smacked the counter, making Draco jump. “Why didn’t we think to ask your parents? They were with you at the charity ball. Shouldn’t they have a clue what happened?”

Draco frowned. They should, he supposed. But he didn’t know what they would say. He didn’t want to know what they would say. It’d been weirdly fun just haunting Potter’s home, messing with the organization of the spices in the cupboards, writing insults in the mirrors foggy from steam, hiding his clothing in different places. If they went to his parents, this connection would end. If they went to his parents, then he may find out the truth. 

There was something quite frightening in memory loss that he never thought of before when he was younger. And it’s learning things about yourself as if you were a stranger. He didn't know what his parents knew or what they may tell Potter if he were to ask.

He cleared his throat. “That sounds reasonable. I can’t imagine it would do much harm.” 

Potter smiled and _ oh Merlin _ Potter was smiling at  _ him _ . Draco felt an inclination to do anything the other man wanted if it got him to smile like that again. A sticky feeling grew in his chest as the realization came to him: even in death, he would still be in love with Harry Potter. 

  
  


Draco could only hope he kept that secret to his grave. He was, admittedly, a bit of a late bloomer when it came to puberty. One early morning at age fourteen he woke up feeling uncomfortable in his pajama bottoms, only to experience more boiling shame and hatred when he could only recount Potter’s face in his dreams. 

This shame and hatred kept him quiet. He couldn’t imagine going to someone like Crabbe or Pansy for advice. And his vitriol reactions to Potter and his Gryffindor friends increased. 

He couldn’t remember ever telling his parents. He couldn’t imagine a reason why he would ever tell his parents of this stupid childhood crush. Pureblood families didn’t have a whole lot of stipulations about same-sex relationships as long as it still subscribed to other pureblood values: the spouse should be a pureblood witch or wizard with powerful magic. Of course, all families were different in their traditions. Would Lucius Malfoy be happy if his son were to come out as gay? Most likely, very unhappy. 

So he didn’t know why his hands shook as he waited for Potter to come home. After his wonderfully clever revelation, the man had nearly burned dinner trying to find his cellphone to call Granger. They talked all the while Potter ate and Draco listened intently to their one-sided conversation to glean what he could learn. 

His parents were both still alive. They were the sole residents of Malfoy Manor. No other children. For the past few years, they hadn’t been out to any public gatherings and were known as being recluses. The last part sounded so unlike them Draco almost interrupted Potter’s call to ask if they’re talking about the right people.

Potter left just a little while ago. Couldn’t have been more than an hour. Just how long did it take to get from their home to his parents’ manor? It couldn’t have been that long. Sure Potter was raised muggle but he’s been in the wizarding world for nearly a decade (Merlin,  _ over  _ a decade now though). Apparition was not a very advanced concept, Hogwarts just didn’t want to risk students being overzealous and splinching themselves. 

Fuck. Thinking of Potter splinching himself and dying halfway between Grimmauld Place and Malfoy Manor was not productive to his case. 

Unless his parents killed him before he could even explain everything. Draco couldn’t imagine they’d be very pleased with Potter of all people walking up to them and asking if they knew he… died. He was dead, wasn’t he? That was the only plausible explanation, really. 

_ Draco’s being chased. _ His legs scream at him but he dare not stop now. The pain, if anything, spurs him on because he knows if he gets caught it would be the least amount of pain he’ll be in tonight. 

There was no way of knowing where he was going. He weaved in and out of trees in a diagonal direction, hoping, praying, to get  _ him _ off his trail. It was dark too, the light and life from the charity ball far behind him by now. Small rocks and sticks stuck into the bottom of his feet and he wondered what happened to his shoes. Thin sticks protruded from the surrounding trees, whipping his arms through the fabric of his suit. This was just the worst night. 

It was as if he wasn’t even breathing. Like his chest was moving without a clue if that’s what it was supposed to do. His lungs burned with the exertion. His mouth was so fucking dry. 

Draco wasn’t paying close enough attention. Too focused on his bodily functions and himself to pay much attention to the ground. So he missed the root curling out of the ground. 

He tripped. 

Fell hard. 

Soft dirt was in his eyes, hair, and mouth. It took a few moments to learn how to breathe again and when he did it turned into a panic attack. He would find him easily now, tear into his flesh, and destroy him completely. Draco started crying, great heaving sobs that he couldn’t stop. Every sound caused him to flinch. 

Eventually, he felt eyes on him. Staring at his body, exhausted and overwhelmed. He curled up on himself and Draco hoped he wouldn’t hurt him too much.

“ _ My, my, my, _ ” he chuckled. “ _ How pathetic you look, Draco Malfoy. Not so high and mighty now, huh? _ ” 

A door opened. Draco gasped. He was in someone’s bedroom, a place he’s never been before. There were posters of half-nude women on the walls and Gryffindor memorabilia in every inch of the room. This couldn’t be Potter’s room, could it? The man blushed violently every time Draco insinuated haunting him and a future girlfriend until she left him. 

He heard footsteps growing near and his heart picked up a little, without him fully knowing why. What’s got him feeling so anxious all of a sudden? It had to just be Potter coming back from the manor. 

Draco left the room, looking back only once to wonder who it belonged to, and then went down the stairs to greet his living roommate. 

The meeting with Draco Malfoy’s parents went somewhat well, Harry thought. Far better than the explosive, immediate denial he was expecting. But then again, he supposed they had to be desperate, even a little. Their son had been missing for six years. 

Harry didn’t make it a habit to visit the Malfoys. He didn’t think anyone did. Narcissa Malfoy and her son avoided Azkaban on Harry’s witness, but Lucius was not so lucky. He spent four years in prison after the war before getting out on good behavior. Something Ron always felt was entirely unfair, but he believed most Death Eaters should rot in prison for the rest of their lives for the crimes they committed against innocent people. 

He felt more than uncomfortable standing outside the gate to the entire estate, waiting for someone to open it and let him in. He’d already sent a letter telling them he needed to talk, one that Narcissa replied to and said they’d be expecting him. 

Eventually, the gates opened up and he walked through quickly so as not to attract the attention of the Malfoys’ free-range white peacocks. He didn’t know enough about them to feel confident just walking around with them. Besides, knowing the Malfoys, these peacocks were probably trained to attack intruders they couldn’t immediately recognize. 

Narcissa Malfoy was waiting for him outside the manor building. Just ten feet from the porch of the house was an outdoor dining table, meant for few people to sit at. There was a glass ceiling overhead to protect them and the contents on the table from fallen leaves and other debris. 

She looked beautiful, but it was clear the effects of the war were cemented in her appearance. Her hair was paler than he remembered despite only being in her early fifties. And her dress was in black, giving her the appearance of a woman at a funeral. Harry felt an uncomfortable pit in his stomach as the reality of what he was supposed to talk with her about set in. 

Harry sat across from her, feeling too uncomfortable to take the seat directly next to her. 

“So,” she began, her voice strong and unwavering. “I believe you said you had some news about Draco, my son.” 

“Right, about that.” He took a deep breath to prepare for the plunge. “He showed up, in my house, at Grimmauld Place. Except… he’s not exactly himself.” 

The small glimmer of hope in the first part of his statement was extinguished in the older woman’s eyes once he finished. Harry wondered if she knew something he didn’t. 

“Whatever do you mean?”

She offered him a biscuit from the tray on the table. There was also a pitcher of lemonade next to her he hadn’t noticed prior. Is this what she did all day? Sit outside to dwell and think? Harry was curious as to what Lucius did all day if this was Narcissa’s daily routine. 

“Well, he’s a ghost, we think,” Harry said, trying not to let himself get too distracted by his own curiosity. “And the last time we’ve had any records of him was a charity ball in 2002.” 

She didn’t speak for some time. Her expression was downcast as she sipped from her drink, seeming to be lost in thought. Harry saw the resemblance between her and Draco’s thinking faces and smothered a smile. He’d been noticing a lot of little things about Draco Malfoy that he hadn’t noticed before. Or, if he had, he repressed it like many things during sixth year. Many revelations about himself. 

“Draco was always… off, after the war. He kept to himself, stayed in his room. Sometimes we’d hear him screaming because he accidentally locked the door and couldn’t get out, though. He was paranoid, terrified, but he wouldn’t tell either of us about it. Merlin knows Lucius tried to get it out of him.” She sighed. “It hurt so much to see him clearly suffering but not be able to do anything to help.” 

“I understand that must’ve been difficult.” The Draco she described seemed so different from the ghost that was rooming with him. 

“It was. Some of the things he did, I could never understand. He wouldn’t walk through the gardens with me anymore. Certain meals would make him vomit just from the smell. I was worried… someone had hurt him when our house was inhabited during the war. But I couldn’t find any proof. And Lucius thought it unthinkable that a Death Eater would betray our family like that.” 

Disdain dripped from her voice at that sentiment and Harry felt like things weren’t going well for them. 

“Was there anyone you suspected? Or anybody you knew who threatened him?” 

“Harry, dear,” she had an astonished expression. “Everyone threatened us. It didn’t matter what side. We were a fairly easy target for malicious letters and pranks.” 

Oh. He should’ve expected an answer like that. Harry thought for a moment. “Do you remember anything from that charity ball? Was that the last time you saw him?” 

“Yes. Lucius and I were whisked away by some elites to socialize and I didn’t want to leave him alone, but Lucius convinced me he would be fine by himself for half an hour. When we came back to go get him, he was gone. Nowhere on the property. Nowhere within one hundred feet of the building. I had hoped he just went home, but the manor was empty when we arrived.” She had to stop for a moment. Her eyes were beginning to tear up. “He didn’t even want to go. He begged us not to make him dress up in that suit and attend with us.” 

Harry thought about this. About the flashback Draco had in his study that day Hermione was over. Whether he knew it or not, he was mumbling the entire time. Most of it was unintelligible.

His chat with Narcissa Malfoy ended there. He’d only come for one reason and, now that the reason was fulfilled, he didn’t see a lot of reason for staying.  _ Besides _ , he thought,  _ Draco must be eager to hear what happened from his mother’s perspective.  _ Harry thanked her for her time and apparated back home. 

Draco wasn’t in the study as usual. (He had grown to like the old mystery novels that Harry had never even glanced at.) Harry took off his jacket and hung it up on the back of one of the study’s armchairs. 

“Malfoy?” He called out. Only hearing his own voice echo back. “Draco! Where did you go off to?” 

He looked up at the sound of someone walking down the stairs. His heart skipped a few beats. 

“Draco… you’re…” 

There was color to him. Not all, but more. The suit jacket he was wearing ceded being a translucent white and retained a deep navy blue color to it. And, if Harry looked closely, he thought he could see some of the blond in his hair. The man looked completely oblivious to this change, merely staring at him from midway down the stairs. 

“Potter? How is my mother?” He seemed anxious for the answer. 

Harry smiled. “She’s great. Um, I had biscuits and lemonade with her. Not something I was really expecting, to be honest.” He slipped out of his trainers and went into the study, not looking back to see if Draco followed. “The last time they saw you was at that ball, Draco. If you remember anything that happened, you need to tell me. I… I want to find you and help you.” 

There was a pinkness to his cheeks that Harry felt very lucky to see. He wondered what changed for this color to suddenly appear. He should call Hermione and invite her over as soon as possible. 

“You’ve never called me Draco before,” he said softly. 

“Well, why not? I’m going to be thirty soon. I have no reason to hold any animosity for you in my heart.” He remembered the pain in Narcissa’s eyes at her recounting that night. He felt he owed it to her to be civil to him. “You can call me Harry. If you’d like. If your seventeen-year-old angst will let you, I mean.” 

Draco scoffed. “I’ll have you know, I’m technically twenty-one. Seeing as I disappeared in 2002.” 

“Oh,  _ my  _ apologies, your lordliness.” 

  
  


Granger’s eyes nearly popped out of her skull at the sight of him. She’d never seen something happen to a ghost, not in any of her research. None of the ghosts at Hogwarts she went back to talk to ever spoke about this as a possibility. 

But for Draco, he didn’t really know what ‘this’ was. When Potter— Harry— brought him to the mirror and showed him the color, he thought he was dreaming. That maybe this was all just some strange, long dream that he had yet to wake up from. He spent three hours in front of the mirror staring at his face and his clothes, to the point that he couldn’t tell if he was imagining color in places where there wasn’t any. 

The three of them (Weasley was with them too, along with their daughter Rose) talked in depth about what this meant. 

“None of the ghosts at Hogwarts are like this! It’s all a sort of monochromatic white and black translucent color scheme normally. I’ve even asked Nearly Headless Nick to contact some of his buddies and ask if they knew anything different.”

“And? Did they?” 

“Harry, if they did then I’m sure she would’ve opened with that,” Draco interrupted with a sneer. 

Weasley popped his head up from an old copy of The Arrogant Abraxan and stared suspiciously. “Since when did you start calling him ‘Harry’?”

“Since when did you and Granger get married? I would’ve thought she was smarter than that…” 

Harry waved off his rudeness with a hand and said, “Don’t mind him, Ron. He’s just mad because I keep giving him stuff on accident.” 

“I’ve been living with you for a month! You should know I can’t carry things!”  
And that statement brought a whole new slew of questions from Granger. Draco didn’t remember having conversations like these with his friends. They would sit together and do homework and talk about familial obligations. When he thought back on it, he wondered why they were even friends. What did he have in common with these people other than their parents knowing each other and all being Slytherins? Sometimes Pansy Parkinson would mention, quite melancholy, that their parents would expect them to marry as adults.

But Harry and his friends could talk about anything and everything. In fact, they did. Of course, things were mainly centered around parenthood, Granger’s pregnancy, wondering what their former classmates were up to, but also current events. 

Same-sex marriage, or civil partnerships, were legalized in 2005 in England. Draco was taken aback by that, he’d never thought he’d see the day. 

“Draco,” the use of his first name still caught him off guard, but he identified the voice of Granger and looked in her direction. “Have you had any more of those visions?” 

“Not really. Sometimes I hear a… voice. Or I feel like I’m trapped, but I am perfectly fine where I am.” 

“Do you recognize the voice?” Harry asked. And he was staring at Draco again with those imploring green eyes. The ones that made Draco want to pour his heart out. He’d never seen more trusting eyes. 

“If I did, I promise you’d be the first to know.” He smiled pleasantly, fluttering his eyelashes dramatically in the hopes of getting a reaction. His satisfaction roared at Harry’s scowl, his cheeks dark with blood. “It’s definitely familiar but I just can’t quite recognize it. I’m sure I heard it amidst the Death Eaters in my home when… You-Know-Who was there.”

Harry groaned. “Most of those Death Eaters are dead, in Azkaban, or have already been interrogated by your parents.” 

Weasley looked at them. “Well, some of those blokes didn’t get arrested until a few years ago. Maybe they had something to do with Malfoy?” 

Draco didn’t like thinking that some creep had his body. Some creep who was probably already fantasizing about him when he was a teenager daunted with the task to murder his own teacher. He shuddered at the memory of sharp yellow nails tapping against his family’s dining room table during mealtimes, bright blue eyes staring into him as if he were far more interesting than the raw, bloody meat on his plate. 

Taking a deep breath, he asked, “Whatever happened to Fenrir Greyback?” 

  
  


Arrested in early May 2007. Found in a cabin deep in a forest near Staffordshire. The cabin was filled with evidence of victims but nothing identifiable. No bodies anywhere in the forest, not even bones. Which, Draco had to admit, did give him a little hope. He had to be alive then, right? If there was no evidence to support otherwise. 

Like the  _ obedient housewife _ he was, Draco stayed at the home while Harry went out to investigate the area. Despite quitting from the Auror department nearly half a decade ago, he still kept his penchant for action. If there was something he needed to figure out, he did it by analyzing the issue up close. He even did it for minor things, like if he lost his keys. (Or if Draco hid his keys.)

It was around dinner time. Draco sat in one of the kitchen chairs, watching the stove. Usually, at this time, Harry would be in front of him and cooking some meal he found online that piqued his interest. He would be humming to songs Draco’s never heard before and talking about his day. Without Auror work, Harry had to fill his time so he wouldn’t succumb to madness caused by isolation. He found a love for many things. 

On Mondays, he had late afternoon arts and crafts with a group of elder citizens in the city. And one of those people introduced him to the literature group that got together. And while he hardly ever read the books they discussed, which was preposterous to Draco, he had great fun talking to them. He volunteered on Fridays to make food for the homeless in the area. Even in the Muggle world, he was Saint Potter. Draco smiled to himself. 

And this wasn’t even accounting for the fact that he went out regularly with his friends in the Wizarding world. Harry told him he didn’t do it as often with him around. Draco didn’t know if the envy in his chest was totally justified;  _ he was only spending so much time with you because he’s trying to figure out a way to get you to leave. Permanently. _

Draco’s heart still stuttered when he remembered that this was temporary. One of these doors, sooner rather than later, they would figure it out. Either he would pass on peacefully or he’d be… he didn’t even know. But it still didn’t change the fact that he would leave. 

And they’d go back to the way things were for the past ten years: Draco becoming a recluse just like his parents and Harry would probably find a beautiful girlfriend to flaunt everywhere in the  _ Daily Prophet _ . 

Hurt filled him, sending a stabbing pain through his chest. But the pain persisted, gaining a pulsing feature that indicated to Draco that this wasn’t his normal gay feelings getting in the way. This was undoubtedly different. He didn’t think he’d be able to feel pain again, seeing as nothing could physically touch him. Sure, he could touch other things in a strange sense but he didn’t  _ feel  _ anything he touched. 

He clutched his suit jacket, aching to rip it off in the hopes it’ll lessen the pain slightly. It was beginning to get hard to breathe. 

Draco looked up, and his surroundings were different. No longer was he in Harry’s homely kitchen, but what looked to be a hospital. Nothing like St. Mungo’s, which had magic pouring through every seam, this hospital had televisions near every bed. Every bed had sleeping people in it, connected to their televisions with wires all around their mouths and noses. He could walk around the room as he pleased. But the pain, which lessened or greatened depending on where he went, justified him not moving very much. 

Other people were there of course. Awake people, he noticed. Sitting near the beds and staring at, what he guessed, their loved ones. And among these awake people, he recognized a head of raven-black curls. Sitting with his back toward him at one of these beds was Harry Potter. Draco’s chest hurt and this time he didn’t think it was the same as before. 

Who was he here for? Was this some secret lover he kept Draco from knowing about? He crept forward, towards him, when the pain rendered him speechless. He fell to his knees and clutched the front of his jacket. 

Harry turned to look and Draco reached out. But he ignored him as if he wasn’t even there. He frowned and shook his head slightly before turning back to the patient. 

_ He can’t see me. He can’t fucking see me. _ Draco cried out in pain. He truly was a ghost now, wasn’t he? Unseen, completely ignored by all. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? To hide away from the world like the coward he was. 

His vision was beginning to blue but he could still see a nurse walk up to Harry. He could see the solemn expression on her face. She put her hand on his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry but we really can’t keep you for longer since you’re not family. Thank you for identifying the body and helping us get in contact with them, though. This process should be much easier now.” 

Harry stood up shakily like he just walked off a ship. Sealegs, Draco’s heard it been called. He moved away a bit and Draco finally got a chance to see who he was visiting. 

A pale body covered up almost completely by the standard hospital bed sheets. His mouth was covered with the same equipment that covered the others. Eyes closed so that long, delicate blond eyelashes fell against his cheekbones. Blond hair, so much longer than his hair now, flowed over his shoulders. Some parts of it were braided neatly. The body was his. 

Panic clawed up his throat. What was he doing in a Muggle hospital? What happened to him over the past ten years? How long was he in this coma for and who found him? Would he ever wake up? Was he just going to sit between life and death, unknown by the one he loves most? Never able to see his family or friends again? 

A rhythmic beeping filled his senses but he couldn’t quite place it. 

“Oh my god!” A feminine voice exclaimed. 

“What’s happening to him? Is he going to be okay?” 

“Sir, you have to leave.” Another beep. It sounded as if it was right next to him but nothing was near. 

“I can’t just leave him like this!”

_ I don’t want to leave you either _ , Draco’s mind supplied before everything went dark.

  
  


Harry couldn’t move from his bed. This entire situation was fucked and all he could do was talk to his ceiling about it. 

He’d come home that night feeling numb. It was Draco Malfoy in the ward for comatose patients. No doubt about it, even if the staff said they couldn’t recognize who it was. They said he’d been found at the edge of the woods just a few miles away on the side of the road, nearly dead and seeming to have been suffering severe abuse. A group of college students happened upon him on their way back home for school break and drove him to the hospital, believing that the ambulances would come too slow. He’d been in that hospital for ten months. 

Nearly an entire fucking year, he’s been in that state. Harry shuddered at the thought. And, to make matters worse, when he’d arrived at Grimmauld Place Draco was gone. He’d gone through every single room in the house. Even the ones that hurt the most, like Sirius’ room. But Draco just wasn’t there. 

And Harry didn’t know what else to do but to lay down. And rest. He’d answer his phone and talk, especially when it was Ron and Hermione who were calling. They’d always been easy to talk to. So he talked about what happened. When Draco had his seizure— his first, the doctors and nurses said. 

He’d been forced to leave pretty quickly after that. To an empty home. 

  
  


Narcissa wrote to him a few days after the incident. She thanked him profusely and updated him on his state. He was still comatose, but he refrained from scaring everyone half to death with another seizure. She begged him to come visit when he could and Harry couldn’t just deny her that request. If she thought it might help his state, then he’d follow all of her advice. 

The hospital hadn’t changed much in his few days of depression. The Malfoys moved Draco to his own private room. He should’ve expected that, but it still made him laugh a little. When he entered the room, there were far more presents. Balloons and cards sent from Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini. Candies sent from Gregory Goyle and his family. 

Narcissa stared at him when he sat next to the bed. She smiled and stood to leave, letting him have his moments alone. “He likes when people talk to him.” 

Harry smiled back at her. He thought back to when he first arrived. He was in too much shock to start up a conversation, so he just sat and stared morosely. Now though he felt a little bad about that. The doctor explained that he should still be able to hear everything around him, he just wouldn’t really be able to react to it. 

So he waited until Narcissa had left the room to begin. “Everyone’s doting on you, y’know. I’m sure it’s everything you’ve always wanted. And, look,” Harry pulled the card out of his jacket pocket. “Even Ron and Hermione wrote to you. Weird times, huh? You’ve even gained their sympathy.”

A pause. It was weird not hearing his snarky remarks, but he could imagine.  _ It’s about time these idiots started appreciating me _ , he knew Draco would respond.

“Yeah,” he supposed. “Really sucks that people only start missing you when you’re gone. 

“I’ve missed you at home, you bastard. I don’t even know where you are. Perhaps you’re not even here at all. I want to see you and talk to you and be with you. I want to be with you, Draco. I…” 

He kind of felt like an idiot, admitting this to someone who wouldn’t be conscious enough to reciprocate. But that had its added benefits. He wouldn’t be rejected, being the most compelling. 

“I love you, I think. Well, I suppose I can’t really know that yet. But I know I want to spend time with you for as long as I can. As a ghost, as a person. Hell, at this point I don’t even really care. I would willingly deal with you stealing my underwear and throwing it in the street to fulfill your mischievous, ghostly impulses if it meant I can talk to you again.” Harry laughed to himself. 

_ I didn’t take you for some kind of pseudo-necrophile, Potter. _

Ugh. Harry leaned forward and flicked Malfoy’s forehead unfairly. Guilt ate at him immediately after. How much of a dick is he that he’ll mess with a comatose patient? Even if that patient was Draco Malfoy.

Harry kissed the spot on his forehead he flicked, which satiated his guilt. And it sent a jolt of affection through him. He pushed back Draco’s hair, allowing his fingers to touch the soft, if not a little tangled, blond locks. 

Minute movement caught his attention. A shift in Draco’s brows that caused them to furrow. Harry’s heart leaped in his throat and he waited for any other sign of life. And another sign of life came. His eyes opened, eyelids pried together somewhat by sleep. The eyes met him immediately and Harry grinned. In his peripheral vision, he saw the heart monitor beeping a bit faster than before. He felt as if it were his own heart’s excitement. 

“Good morning,” he said quietly, not wanting to speak too loudly in case it broke this spell. “You’ve missed a lot.” 

Knowing he couldn’t keep this moment all for himself, Harry pressed the nurse call button and waited. He held one of Draco’s cold, pale hands in his own and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. This might be the last time in a while he’d be able to kiss him, so he wanted to get in as many as he could. 

The nurses and Narcissa entered the room. Harry stood back and watched as Draco Malfoy woke up. 

  
  


Hermione Granger-Weasley was smiling widely as she opened the front door. Everyone was right about pregnant women having a glow to them; she looked positively ecstatic. And inside the house, everything was decorated with banners and balloons and sweet treats on every table. 

Draco smiled at her and accepted her hug. 

“I’m so happy you two have come!” She exclaimed, holding on tightly to Draco for just a few moments. And he couldn’t say he wanted her to let go. 

Harry scoffed. “As if we would miss your baby shower. What kind of uncle would I be if I didn’t come?” 

“I still don’t understand baby showers. Why is it called a shower? Muggle celebrations are so strange sometimes,” Draco muttered. 

“Is it really any better than the ancient Wizarding tradition of ‘anointing the newborn with the scales of a freshwater plimpy’?” Harry reminded him, wrapping his arm around his waist and helping to walk him inside. 

Waking up from the year-long coma wasn’t an easy task. Draco didn’t even remember the first five days. But Harry was there the entire time. Along with his mother and father, of course. He didn’t know how he’d react to seeing them after so long or how they’d react to him, but things were pleasantly quiet. His mother cried when they had their first coherent conversation and his father just kept patting his shoulder every so often, as if to reinforce that he was still there. 

As mentally draining as it was regaining his life, the physical load he took was nearly unbearable. His muscles had atrophied so much during his sleep that he could barely raise his arms to eat. The physical therapist his parents hired to help out was a tough woman who didn’t respond to his whining and moaning and made sure he kept up with his daily exercises. Harry helped out when he could but Draco found it too easy to exploit his softheartedness and spent most of his exercise time kissing. 

Oh, right. The kissing was new. Draco couldn’t really remember his time as a ghost but he remembered the emotions that came with it. He could somewhat remember the monologue Harry made at his bedside, but Harry swore Draco was making up the parts where Harry called him “the absolute light of his life, the best thing that’s ever happened to him.”

The Granger-Weasley house was light with life. Muggle friends and magical friends alike shared the spaces, talking and laughing and sharing stories back and forth. Harry led them to an empty spot on the couch and practically fell into it, pulling him into his lap. He held him tightly, the motion jostling him and making him laugh. 

Draco didn’t care what happened those past ten years. He didn’t  _ want  _ to remember those six years he was missing. He found he was actually quite fine repressing that trauma. 

Harry spoke softly in his ear which sent shivers down his spine. “What do you think of babies, Malfoy? Something you might want in the future?” 

“Not particularly.” He glanced at the domestic scene of Ron placing Rose’s hands on her mother’s round belly, the eyes light with joy. “But I suppose I can see the good in them.” 

“What if we had a baby?” Harry’s voice was even softer than before, by some miracle.

“I’d love to try,” Draco flirted, placing his hands on Harry’s arms, which were still around his stomach. 

He relaxed into the man behind him as he chuckled quietly. 

Everything was going to be alright. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated :))


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